All the King's Men
by KianCalling
Summary: In a land of myth and a time of magic... a millennium (and a half) later, Merlin has some stories to tell, and there's a little girl curious enough to listen.
1. Prologue

Merlin sat, like he often did, on the shores of the lake of Avalon. Every day, he would walk by the old lake (whose modern name the old sorcerer never bothered to remember); he would stop and whisper a small greeting, a silent prayer. But on some days, particularly cold and particularly blustery days, words were not enough. And so he would sit on the shore-bed, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. Sometimes even well into the night. Then, when his heart was no longer as frigid as the world around him, he would pull himself up, his old knees cracking, his messenger bag full of old spell books heavy on his shoulder. If the moon shown bright, he'd walk home in silence, guided by the pale glow. When the moon was hidden, he'd glance around briefly, wondering if anyone was watching him (although he couldn't have seen them, he could always _feel_ them). When he was assured no one was, he would hold his palm out and whisper, softly, _bryne on bradhanda._ The gentle fire floating in his palm would take him not only home, but to a world of memories he hoped he would never forget, even if he lived forever.

There were certain days, however, in which Merlin would set aside the entire day just to sit by the lake. He did, as some may not have realized, have a life beyond Arthur, beyond Camelot, beyond the great kingdom of Albion. Throughout time he had been a great physician and doctor, a teacher, a diplomat, an alchemist and a chemist, a musician and an actor and an entertainer. Throughout his long life beyond Arthur and Albion, Merlin had lived every role man could come up with multiple times over, except for two. For only Arthur would Merlin ever be a soldier and a servant again.

But on these aforementioned days that Merlin would set aside to sit beside Avalon, the old sorcerer would abandon the life he created for himself. These days came once, maybe twice a year (calendars and time-keeping had changed and varied during his life, and so Merlin relied on his intuition to remind him of these days), and they were always brilliantly sunny days. On fine days, like those that Merlin set aside, children, under both careful and careless supervision by their parents, would play. They would chase each other, screaming with glee. They would build muddy sandcastles and have swordfights with twigs. In more recent times, they would sit on the grass higher up on the shore, watching movies and reading stories on their mobile phones and portable computers, outside only because their parents demanded so.

Nobody had ever come to talk to Merlin, beyond the polite nod of acknowledgement. Every few decades or so, Merlin would change his age, sometimes playing at the young boy he once was all those years ago, the righteous, foolish boy he was when he first entered the city of Camelot. Some decades Merlin was solidly definable as "middle-aged," though for him it was an age that had seen many endings, from the death of dear friends, such as Gaius and Leon, to his final memory of Guinevere. He had never shared a final goodbye with the Great Queen, and for that, he was never sure if he should be saddened or grateful.

It is easy to say that no one ever talked to Merlin simply because they did not recognize him. But humans are subconsciously remarkable creatures, and Merlin knew, after centuries of life, that his fellow inhabitants beside this lake were not easily fooled, just modestly simple. Intuitively, all understood that he had a story too heavy, too grand to be told casually along a lake shore. And so, they all left him alone. Well, almost all of them.

"Do you ever get bored, just staring out at the lake like that?"

Merlin blinked, broken from his reverie by the small voice of a young girl. He furrowed his brow and looked over at the girl, who stood just to his left. With Merlin sitting cross-legged on the muddy sand, the girl's head was above his, and, hoping to find more than just legs to look at, Merlin had to look up and into the sunlight. But all he saw then was a silhouette.

"What?" he replied. The little girl huffed.

"I asked if you get bored. It's a lake, what's there to see?"

Merlin just blinked at the girl. After a few moments, she let out another scalding sigh and dropped to her bottom gracelessly, in a way that only a carefree child could. Merlin could see more than a silhouette now; the little girl, probably no more than nine or perhaps ten years old, had light brown skin and chocolate eyes. Her caramel hair frizzed and curled, cut short so that it just spiraled out from her head, defying gravity. One front tooth was missing, and the rest of her teeth, as she was too young yet for braces, were endearingly crooked. She had the appearance of a little girl that would grow up to be beautiful, humbled by her youth and empowered by her growth.

Merlin looked back out at the lake. Sometimes he forgot that he'd hidden the center island from everyone but himself.

"Well?" the little girl asked indignantly.

"There's everything," Merlin replied, "if you look hard enough." He had expected the little girl to offer a retort, and after a moment of silence, he looked over at her. To his surprise, she was looking hard at the lake. Squinting her eyes, the girl seemed to be studying every wave that slid lazily up the shore. Merlin watched her for a few minutes before interrupting. "Well?"

The girl looked up at him. "Well what?" she asked crossly.

"Well, what do you see?"

"Water," she snapped.

"Just water?" Merlin teased.

"Just water! And don't laugh!" she exclaimed, though Merlin couldn't help but chuckle at the girl's callous frustration. "It's stupid anyways!"

Still smiling, Merlin replied, "Of course it is. And it will be until it isn't." His gaze returned to the lake, a look of longing entering his eyes that didn't even begin to describe how much he missed laughter. True, genuine laughter that often accompanied the teasing of a best friend.

The girl was silent so long, he thought perhaps she had gotten bored and left. Curious, he looked over, only to see her looking back at him, her head titled to the side like a questioning puppy. True to his age, his face furrowed in disgust.

"What?" he spat. His harshness didn't seem to faze the little girl. She merely broke her gaze, looking at her mud-covered legs stretched out before her.

"My mum says you're lonely, that's why you sit out and stare at the lake," she said. Merlin just blinked, unsure how to respond. "And Pop says you've got too many stories knocking around your head, you're confusing them with the real world, and that's why you stare at the lake."

"That so?" Merlin finally replied softly. He had no defense, for both were true.

"Yeah," the girl said, her voice sounding rather sad. But then she beamed at him. "But I told them that I think you're just waiting to meet someone!" Merlin blinked once, before full, round laughter spilled from his mouth.

"And what makes you think that, exactly?"

"Well, isn't that what people are doing when they sit in the same place all the time? They promise to meet someone at this place at this time, and so you wait, 'cause you know they won't break that promise. Will they?" The gaze the girl fixed on Merlin was hopeful, maybe even tinged with desperation.

"No," Merlin answered, a feeling of determined assurance washing over him. "No, of course he won't."

The two sat in silence for quite some time. The girl, despite her youth, lacked the physical restlessness that drove parents and teachers alike to madness. Her restlessness lay in the mind, situated just behind her eyes that kept them moving always. Something hidden in the water would suddenly cause the surface to ripple like a flag in the wind and her gaze would dart to it. She didn't have to be a druid for Merlin to know the thoughts that ran through her head. This remarkably restless girl was asking herself every question under the sun and moon, and all those that float around the emptiness of space (notably one of Merlin's favorite scientific frontiers of the last 500 years). To her, no story was too heavy or too grand, for since birth had she felt the power of every word that passed the lips of man; their weight had made her strong, their grandeur made her curious.

The sun high in the sky, Merlin asked a mildly simple question. "Who are you?"

"Mum says my name's really Jennifer, but my whole life everyone says Jen," she answered innocently, pulling up her knees. "You can call me Jen, too. I like it better anyways."

"Jen," Merlin echoed, thinking this girl, unlike the billions of faces he had seen, was someone he had known before.

"Well," Jen continued after a moment. "Aren't you going to tell me who you are? 'S only polite, you know." The young girl had an uncanny ability to make Merlin smile wide and genuinely.

"I am who I was and I am who I am, and I am who I always will be," Merlin offered, still smiling at the memories.

"That's a stupid answer," the girl snapped, and leaned forward to put her chin on her knees in a pout. Merlin opened his mouth to respond but she interrupted. "And don't tell me it will be until it won't be, you already said that. I don't like riddles, they're stupid." Merlin laughed as the girl's pout intensified. "Well they are!" she whined. "Life would be a lot easier if people just stopped using riddles and said what they think."

"Like you do?" Merlin inquired. The girl's pout turned sheepish.

"Like I want to do," she answered.

And with those words, Merlin could feel the earth tremble beneath him. With the power of a child's desire, the world was changing, destinies were being challenged and rewritten, fate itself was failing in its permanence. The magic that the universe held deep within its soul was awakening, as it did only when its children called for it, and the old sorcerer's mind was sparking, as if it had been dormant all this time.

"Perhaps," Merlin finally said, "you'd like to hear a story?" He looked at the girl, who was sticking her toes into the muddy sand distractedly.

"Okay, but you have to do two things."

"You've got conditions? You're nine," Merlin teased, eyebrow raised and lips smiling.

"Ten," Jen corrected, raising a hand. "One, it has to be a long story," she said, counting on her fingers.

Merlin nodded. That would be easy enough to satisfy.

Jen continued: "And two, the ending can't be happy."

"You want a sad ending?" Merlin asked, surprise in his voice.

"Only happy stories really end," Jen explained, more interested in a hangnail she'd noticed while listing her terms.

"Well," Merlin replied, "Alright then. I'll see what I can do." He looked at Jen out of the corner of his eye, before shifting his gaze back to the invisible island. Then he began:

"In a land of myth and a time of magic, the destiny of a great kingdom rests on the shoulders of a young boy. Two, actually. And their great kingdom was called Camelot."

* * *

"A little to your left, Merlin," Arthur called across the training grounds. With a grunt, Merlin lifted the wooden target. It was heavier than it seemed, and the constant threat of throwing knives was no help to the weight of Merlin's exasperation. He'd been the prince's servant for just over a week, and by now he was beyond convinced that the Great Dragon had made some terrible mistake. "Stop, right there! Ah, actually, a bit to your right!"

Perhaps, Merlin was thinking to himself as he dragged the target through the mud back to his original position, Kilgharra had mistook Merlin for Prince Arthur. What the dragon actually meant was that it was _Arthur's_ destiny to help _Merlin_ unite Albion or rule Camelot or whatever it was _exactly_ the dragon had been foretelling. Merlin had to admit, he didn't believe in prophecies. Prophecies, as far as Merlin was concerned, were for fo—

"Merlin!" The young sorcerer lacked the time to process the fact that a knife was flying towards his nose before it wasn't. More out of instinct than reaction, Merlin's eyes lit gold and the knife flew off to the right. A heartbeat later, he was looking at Arthur and the Knights, who just stared back in response.

After the second heartbeat, Merlin realized what he had just done.


	2. Chapter One

"Sorcery!" Uther Pendragon yelled, a vein over his left temple throbbing in disgusting anger. "I won't have it in Camelot! Not in my kingdom!"

"Well, to be fair, Your Highness, we can't prove _for certain_ it was sorcery," Arthur replied, rubbing a hand over his forehead in frustration. The two were arguing in the Great Hall alone, all others dismissed on account of Uther's inability to talk about magic calmly and Arthur's inability to accept his decision without discussion.

"Sorcery! Clearly, it was the work of a sorcerer! Four of your Knights and two other servants saw the knife fly away without the boy moving so much as a finger!" Uther hollered, his commanding voice booming against the stone walls. "His eyes even glowed like the demon Azazel!"

"I already told you, I saw no yellow eyes!" Arthur swore.

"Really, Arthur, when will you accept you're blind to colors? We've had this discussion—"

"I don't care whether the robes of Camelot are 'red' or 'blue!' This is a serious discussion. Merlin's life is in question."

"Arthur, he's a serving boy. One capable of sorcery! He probably has plans to dethrone the Pendragons and return Camelot to its former chaos."

Arthur stared at his father for a moment, silent. Then, as if tasting something sour, he exclaimed, "Merlin? Merlin? I've known the boy for a week and already I know he's a fool. He couldn't hold a sword, let alone dethrone a great king."

"He doesn't need to hold a sword if he's a sorcerer," Uther replied. Arthur sighed.

"Sire—" he said.

"My decision is final! The boy is convicted of the crime of being a sorcerer. He'll hang at tomorrow's dawn." Uther turned away from Arthur with a flourish, as if emphasizing his right to decide who lives or who dies.

"Father, please," Arthur begged. Without facing his son, Uther gripped the throne's armrest.

"Why?" he asked. "You challenge me over so few things. I thought of all things you would always agree with me on sorcerers and their treachery. Why, when they've taken so much from us, would you challenge me on this?"

Arthur stared at his father, unsure of how to respond right away. The king had a point; even Arthur himself wasn't completely sure why he felt the need to challenge his father. He hadn't lied earlier—he _had_ only known Merlin a week and had thus far only been able to deduce for sure that the serving boy was a fool. _And probably not nearly as much of a fool as I thought_ , Arthur conceded. He supposed in some respect he was helping Morgana please her serving girl Guinevere (and it had absolutely _nothing_ to do with how beautiful he thought the serving girl was, Arthur was just being chivalrous, helping a distressed woman, as any good prince must).

"Well?" Uther prodded, his voice toned with something like… _contempt_? Did his father think Arthur's concerns were a _joke_? Arthur bristled involuntarily while the king continued, "Really, Arthur, you still have so much to learn."

"Do I?" the prince asked immediately. Uther shot him a bemused look.

"Yes, you do. You can't even recognize when it's _inappropriate_ to confront your king."

"Maybe that's because you think it's always inappropriate!" Arthur argued, trying, but failing to bite his tongue.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you think it's easy for me to question your decisions? You're the king—my father," Arthur explained, knowing it was pointless now to hold back. "I _admire_ you, _look up_ to you. I've always believed you were a just, fair king. But if you're so easily willing to kill a lowly serving boy _that's saved my life who knows how many times_ , simply because he can do a magic trick, then maybe you aren't. And that's something I need to know—"

"I am a fair king, Arthur," Uther spat, his eyes flaring. "But sorcery is not something to be tolerated. It is evil, and it must be destroyed. Those that practice it must die with it, or there will never be peace."

"You can't kill everyone that has magic. You'll be killing innocent people, good people!"

"Innocent? Sorcery is a crime, and those that use it are guilty of—"

"Of what? Saving my life?" Arthur knew it was no use arguing, and so he said one final thing, even if it would be too much: "I don't think... Magic doesn't make a person evil, Father. People are… they have to be so much more than that."

"Arthur," Uther said, turning to face his son. The young prince was surprised to see sadness in his father's eyes. "Soon you will learn. The world is complicated, but people are terribly, terribly simple."

* * *

Two hours before, Merlin had been pacing the floor of the cell impatiently. There were patches of the hay that had been kicked up in frustration, and the young boy's hands and face were covered in rusty dust were he'd gripped the bars and leaned his forehead against them, sighing.

Now, Merlin sat at the back wall, leaning against the damp stones. His head was back and his eyes were closed. He wanted so badly to just fall asleep. Last time he'd been tossed in the dungeons, it had taken Gaius all night to get him out. This time, Merlin only had until dawn. This really couldn't be how his life was supposed to go, he told himself. Just a week ago, the Great Dragon had foretold that he would help Arthur unite Albion—he had to live until Arthur was at least king, then, didn't he?

He lifted his head from the wall, opening his eyes, and kicked the hay again in anger. It was a lie anyways; there were no such thing as prophecies or purposes. Merlin knew better than anyone that living was an uncharted mess and that his existence in particular was a cruel joke. All his life he'd tried so hard to fit in, to be more than just the strange boy with magic, capable of learning sorcery. Whether people loved him or hated him for what he could do, it made little difference; they always fixated on the one part of him he had no control over. The one part of him that was unique and extraordinary, the one part of him that was therefore powerful, therefore important.

It was simple. Merlin was his magic; that's what he had always been in life and that's what he would be in death. He'd given up trying to believe otherwise.

"Merlin," someone whispered. The boy looked up to see the pretty Guinevere standing just beyond the bars, a plate of bread in her hand. Smiling, Merlin stood up. "I thought you might be hungry," Gwen said. Merlin took the bread gratefully.

"I guess they figured why waste food on a dead man, huh?" Merlin said with a smile that was more of a grimace. He tore off a piece and shoved it in his cheek as Gwen soured.

"Don't say that!" she scolded. "Arthur will get you out." At that, Merlin let out a full laugh, made rounder by the bread in his cheek.

"Arthur?" he echoed. "Arthur's the one that tossed me in here."

"No, Uther ordered that. The prince is in there right now asking for leniency."

"Leniency for a sorcerer? Maybe I'll get some soup before they hang me." The serving girl shot him a look; Merlin's humor was only earning glares from Gwen today, it seemed.

"Well, you're not really a sorcerer, are you?" she said. Merlin swallowed the bread in his mouth.

"'Course I am! Why would you say that? I have magic, it's out there for everyone to see."

Gwen shrugged. "Well, it's just that I always thought sorcerers had to learn their magic. Hearsay is yours looked as natural as swatting a fly."

"Well, maybe I'm just naturally gifted," Merlin offered, his expression smug. This time, Gwen laughed.

"Maybe," she said, "you're just something more." Merlin just looked at her, not sure how to respond. Under his bright blue gaze, Gwen turned sheepish. "Not— not that magic isn't already really, really ne—"

"Oi!" the guard suddenly called, leaning around the corner to look at Gwen and Merlin. "Come on. Out."

Gwen smiled at Merlin before turning to go. "Have faith," she said.

And then Merlin was alone again.


	3. Chapter Two

Across the castle, Gaius was in his tower, grinding marigold petals in his mortar. It had been just a week, but already his arthritic hands had gotten used to letting Merlin do the hard labor. Neither they nor his mind had quite processed the fact that Merlin wasn't there to do it.

The old physician was staring blankly at the crushed yellow leaves, not really thinking about much of anything. In fact, he was probably putting the most effort into tuning out the voice of Morgana. The fine young woman sat on the dining bench, almost in the same exact spot that Merlin had been sitting that morning. Though the boy had been cramming porridge into his mouth desperately, in a rush to get to Arthur's bedchamber before the prince woke up. Morgana, however, couldn't seem to keep anything behind her lips. She had come to Gaius's apothecary a few hours ago, delivering the news of Merlin's arrest. When the tale had been told, Gaius hadn't been sure how to respond. He still wasn't sure.

But Morgana seemed to be full of answers and suggestions. She had mentioned helping Merlin escape three or four times before Gaius stopped listening. He was fairly certain she hadn't spoken of anything different since. It wasn't so much that Gaius didn't want to do anything. It was more that he didn't think anything could be done. He'd told Merlin countless times not to get caught, to keep his head low. Not for the first time, he doubted Merlin even understood what "lying low" meant.

Glass shattered and Gaius looked up from the mortar to see Morgana now standing across from him. One of his glass jars lay shattered at her feet, its purple, liquid contents seeping into the porous stone floor. "Morgana," he said with a sigh. "That was a very difficult concoction to make. It required very rare ingredients." The woman's eyes flared.

"Really? That's your response? You're more upset about a jar than your apprentice's arrest! You—you—you old cud—you despairing lunatic—you—"

"Morgana," a voice interrupted. Arthur stood in the doorway of Gaius's chambers, barely inside, as if he wasn't sure he could tread into such a place. "I don't think you need to tell Gaius how he feels."

"How he—!" Morgana's anger was torn now. "He's done nothing but grind that dumb dust for the past hour!" she yelled, throwing her hands on her hips. "And you! What have you accomplished? Did you get the boy out?" Arthur's face confirmed Morgana's assumption. "I didn't think so!" she yelled. "You men, you demand all the power, all the respect, and you can't even use it properly!"

"Morgana," Arthur interrupted again. "You need to relax."

"He's your manservant, Arthur! You're the one that threw the knife at him! Don't you feel the slightest bit guilty? You've known him a week, and how many times has he saved your life already? Don't you dare deny he has! I don't care if you dislike him or not, you have no right to just abandon him!"

"Morgana!" Arthur yelled, finally stepping inside the room. Guinevere was with him, and Gaius nearly smiled. _So_ , he mused to himself, _there's a bit of our prince's courage_. The young and chivalrous always did need a bit of prompting from a disheartened, if perfectly capable, damsel.

Morgana finally reined in her voice, and with the room silent, Arthur took a moment to clear his throat and adjust his belt. Then, his voice hiding the nerves his eyes didn't fail to portray, he said, "Alright, I have a plan. We're going to break Merlin out of the dungeons."

"Finally," Morgana exclaimed in exasperation.

"Oh, dear," Gaius added, offering his opinion openly for the first time that afternoon.

* * *

Along the top edge of Merlin's cage, barely two foot-lengths wide and not even one high, with three iron bars stretched across it, was a window. It was too high up for Merlin to really see out of—even if he stood on the wooden slat bed he could barely reach the bars. It wasn't as if there was much to be seen, anyways. The window only looked out onto the training grounds of the castle, perhaps a bit ironically, to the very area where the young sorcerer had unintentionally reshaped destinies. If Merlin could look out of it, he would be eyelevel with the grass; he would be able to see the training horses stomp their feet, the ends of their tails flick and lift. He'd see leather boots and draperies of chainmail that every knight and trainee wore. He'd see the footprints every living thing was leaving in the mud as they wandered around on the surface of the earth, like the free men and women and animals they were.

But in order to avoid filling his last hours with bitterness, Merlin had decided not to try and look out the window. He, instead, sat with his back at the wall, the plate of bread (now empty) off to his right, and his legs stretched out lazily in front of him. All he allowed the window to be was an occasional burst of air and wind, but while it may have entered the dungeon fresh, by the time it reached Merlin's nose, it was as stale and morose as Arthur's boots. Merlin chuckled to himself. _I wonder who the prat will get to clean them now…_

Merlin was so curious about this question that he almost didn't notice the decidedly not-air, not-wind thing that came through the small window. It didn't make a sound as it landed half on the wood bed, its weight and momentum causing it to slide with gravity to the floor. It was this movement, the one in which the item folded in on itself, that Merlin caught out of the corner of his eye, and, intrigued, he leaned over. Gracelessly, he snatched the item off the floor and inspected it as he rolled back to his position against the wall.

In his hands was a silky black cloak, soft and warm. And, it smelled of lilies.

"Fantastic," Merlin said to the air. "At least I get to die smelling pretty."

But, honestly, he liked the fact that someone was thinking of him.

* * *

Night had finally fallen and Merlin was nodding off, his head resting uncomfortably against the end of the wooden slats he was meant to be sleeping on. He used the inexplicable cloak practically—as a blanket, covering his arms and his tucked knees. He was lucidly dreaming of a reality in which he was home, in fact he had never left home, and his mother was baking something that smelled absolutely delicious. The house, however, was starting to smell a bit too much like smoke. Perhaps she had forgotten she was cooking? He needed to warn her, the smell was getting thicker and thicker— "Mum," he called out, only to receive no answer. "Mum!" he called again.

"Merlin!" a voice echoed to him.

"Mum, you forgot—something's—"

"Mum? Ugh! Merlin!" Something hit hard against Merlin's knee and he woke with a start, the smell of smoke still thick around him. He pulled the cloak up to his nose, but then replaced it with the sleeve of his tunic when it became clear that the powerful scent of lilies was just as likely to incapacitate him as the smoke. "Merlin!"

Squinting, Merlin looked up. His right arm's sleeve held against his nose and his left at his side, Arthur stood just beyond the bars. Unrestrained annoyance shown in his eyes.

"Arthur!" Merlin said, surprised, before coughing a bit at the smoke that filled his throat.

" _Prince_ Arthur. And why on earth were you sleeping at a time like this?" the prince asked. Merlin blinked.

"Should I have been doing something else?" he asked.

"How about using that magic of yours to bust the lock!" Arthur scoffed. Again, Merlin just blinked. He _had_ thought about that, but—

"You mean to escape?" he asked.

"No, I mean to go on a midnight stroll—yes, to escape! I see you found the cloak, did you not bother to read the obviously important note that came with it? Honestly, Merlin, to think—"

The prince was still talking, but Merlin was now looking around his cell, searching for the note. _There hadn't been a note. There definitely had not been such a thing, the clotpole just forgot—_

 _Oh_ , Merlin sighed to himself, catching sight of it upon the bench. Standing up, he reached for it. He was about to open it and read it when Arthur interrupted.

"Oh, don't bother. Someone's breaking you out, that's what it says, now come on." Merlin shoved the note in his pocket and moved toward the door. "It's a good thing I'm the one that came, seeing as you couldn't be bothered to break yourself out like you were supposed to. The cloak, Merlin! You'll need that!"

As Arthur used his keys to unlock the cell door, Merlin doubled back for the cloak. "What for?" he asked. Arthur rolled his eyes as he pulled the prison door open for Merlin.

"As a disguise, Merlin. Honestly," Arthur said, his voice dropping a bit so that it seemed he was speaking more to himself. "And my father is convinced you could take over Camelot."

Having heard that, Merlin grew indignant. "What makes you think I couldn't?" he said, swinging the cloak around his shoulders and tying it at his neck. Arthur just looked at him.

"You?" he said incredulously.

"Well, I am a sorcerer," Merlin said. He nearly shuddered at the strangeness of saying that aloud. To his surprise, Arthur just smiled, amused.

"No, you're not." Arthur didn't explain his denial, and Merlin didn't feel like asking. The two were making their way up the dungeon steps now, dropping their sleeves from their noses as they did so. Up higher, the smoke was clearing. If the two unconscious guards on the floor were any indication, Arthur had used some sort of smoke bomb to break him out. The prince caught Merlin glancing down at them, and hurriedly said, "Oh don't worry. They'll be fine. This stuff clears out quick." Merlin didn't bother to ask what prior experience of Arthur's had allowed him to know such a thing. He merely looked at the prince, his eyebrows raised. Instead of elaborating, Arthur only continued, "Which is why we need to go, Merlin, _now_. I know you're dressed like a girl but you don't have to walk like one!"

"I am not—men where cloaks, too!" Merlin said, but his pace quickened.

"I'm not sure you're one of those either, now let's go." Merlin didn't have a chance to respond as Arthur pushed him out into the hall and took off ahead.

Gritting his teeth, but fully aware that he had very few options, the young magician followed, nearly running to keep up.

* * *

 _updates will happen pretty regularly (once a week or so), especially once the semester ends._ _  
thanks a ton to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, and followed this story.  
i really appreciate hearing your thoughts and getting some encouragement.  
stay honest, and always feel free to pm me. _

_Thanks_


	4. Chapter Three

As the prince's servant, Merlin had always assumed he knew the castle inside and out—even if he had only been serving for a week he thought he must know more of back halls than Arthur. After all, the prince did have the right to be anywhere he pleased. Merlin couldn't fathom a circumstance in which Arthur would deign to use what he'd once referred to (in a fit of annoyance brought on by a serving girl running into Arthur with a cup of red wine while he was wearing a new white shirt) as "the peasant alleys."

But without Arthur to lead the way now, Merlin would be hopelessly lost.

The two barely spoke during the escape. Once, when Arthur took the first unfamiliar turn, Merlin had asked, "Can't we just go through the front?" Arthur had shot Merlin a look that said _you're a fool_ , without the prince having to open his mouth. Since then, though, the two had walked in silence.

The prince's actions confused Merlin. He wouldn't believe for a second that the prince had volunteered to break him out. They may not have hated each other after spending a week together, but they certainly weren't friends. Merlin supposed he trusted the prince—at least enough to believe he was actually helping him—but he always thought Arthur held a grudge from that time with the enchanted snake shield. He had proven himself to be right of course (wasn't he always right?), but not before Arthur had made a fool of himself. And if there was one thing the prince did not lack, it was pride. _And honor_ , a little voice in the back of Merlin's head chimed in.

Suddenly, Arthur stopped. He signaled for Merlin to do the same but the boy only knew to halt his walking when he bumped into the prince's backside. "Merlin," the prince snapped. Merlin mumbled out an apology, and Arthur, more or less satisfied (though, was he ever satisfied?), took out his keys again.

The two stood at an intersection in the hallway, a door resting on the wall in front of them. Arthur glanced right and then left, made yet another hand signal that Merlin couldn't interpret, and moved elegantly across the hall. Merlin followed—earning a look that said he wasn't supposed to, but quite frankly, Merlin didn't care—and the door opened, slowly at first, but then faster as Arthur pushed at it. As the hinges squealed, causing the two to shudder and Arthur to glance around, Merlin could see that just beyond the door were steps down into the dark. It almost reminded him of entrance to Kilgharra's cave— _prison_ , Merlin corrected.

The two stood there in the doorway for a minute, exchanging looks.

"Anytime, Merlin," Arthur finally said. Merlin looked down the steps, and then back at Arthur.

"You want me to go first?"

Arthur just sighed in exasperation.

"Honestly, Merlin," he said, pushing past the boy and into the stairwell. "If I had known you were this much of a coward—"

Quite unexpectedly, Arthur was now in the air. His foot had slipped on the steps—the stone stairwell was _musty_ and it was a bit _wet_ , and after all, it was _dark_ and the prince had no _torch_ —but almost as soon as it became obvious he was falling, Merlin's eyes had flashed gold and suspended him. Unlike the time he had used magic to catch Gaius, there was nothing soft for him to put underneath Arthur, so momentarily uncertain as to his next action, Merlin just stood there.

At first, Arthur said nothing. In surprise, he had cut off his last words, but now, apparently, he didn't feel compelled to finish them. So, after a couple heartbeats, sheepishly and a bit out of character for the cocky blond prince he was, he said, "Could you help me down, Merlin?"

As though Arthur could see him, Merlin nodded, before carefully stepping down the one or two steps he needed to be equal to Arthur. Another moment's hesitation—it wasn't often one had to helped down from the air—and Merlin more or less figured out how to take most of Arthur's weight, so that the prince could put a foot on the steps gently, maintaining balance.

Arthur didn't say thank you, and Merlin didn't make a snide comment. The two merely carried on down the staircase—Arthur using one hand to brace himself as he did so—until they reached the bottom, which intersected with yet another hallway.

"I should have brought a torch," Arthur groaned. He was just about to tell Merlin to wait here when, with an unintelligible whisper, a flame illuminated the dark hallway. Not looking at the prince, Merlin held his hand out, and Arthur just watched as a small fire danced in the serving boy's palm.

"Handy," Arthur said after a moment, not without a hint of amusement in his voice. Merlin looked at him, and smiled awkwardly.

"Sometimes."

"You have studied sorcery a bit then," Arthur said, beginning a slow walk down the hall. Merlin followed, a look of guilt flashing across his face.

"Um, well, I mean—" But Arthur chuckled.

"Still doesn't make you a full-blown sorcerer."

Merlin sighed. "What does, then?"

"I don't know. Maybe a pointed hat?"

"And here I thought we were having a serious conversation."

"We are. This is a _deadly_ serious conversation."

"Well, I have no plans of ever wearing a pointed hat, for your information."

"Then you're not really a sorcerer."

"Well, what am I then?" Merlin asked, and Arthur was a bit taken aback by the pleading tone of his voice. The prince stopped, looking at the serving boy behind him.

"You're Merlin, my manservant. The worst one I've ever had at that," Arthur said, his tone somewhere between lighthearted and serious. "And, occasionally, when I am ill-prepared, which is very, very, incredibly rare, you… prove surprisingly resourceful."

Merlin didn't respond, lifting his hand a bit. A beam on the ceiling came down very low here, and grateful for the extra light, Arthur ducked underneath it. They walked on in silence, Arthur turning right at a certain corridor that slowly became narrower and narrower. At some point, the two had reached what could best be described as a tunnel, and a particularly foul-smelling one at that.

The prince took a couple more steps into the tunnel before stopping. At which point he asked, "And anyways, why do you do that?"

Merlin, due to the fact that he had again bumped into Arthur, was trying to discreetly pat out the small pieces of flame that had crawled up his tunic sleeve. He responded rather distractedly, "Do what?"

Arthur turned, just in time to see Merlin put out the last flame, besides the one in his palm of course. He stared open-mouthed at the boy, who made eye contact with him and gave a smile that said, _whoops_. Arthur turned around again and began walking, rolling his eyes as he did so.

"Wait!" Merlin called, jogging a bit to keep up. "Do what?"

"Forget it, never mind," the prince said.

"No, come on, you started the conversation."

"Yes, well now I'm done with it."

"Arthur—"

" _Prince_ Arthur."

"Sorry, Prince," Merlin said, before muttering to himself, "Jeez, no need to be a prat."

This comment was apparently not as low as Merlin meant it to be, because the prince whipped around and demanded again,

" _Why_ do you do that?"

Surprised, but somehow managing to stop before bumping into Arthur this time, Merlin huffed, "Do _what_?"

"Save my life and then call me a prat."

Merlin scoffed, not making eye contact, "I, well—if being a prat means you deserve to die, then the world's gone mad—"

"What?" Arthur asked, and Merlin rather relished the look of bemusement on the prince's face. The young magician chuckled.

"Believe me, a week ago I couldn't have cared less about you," Merlin said, realizing too late that was probably not the best thing for him to say when the prince was his sole means of escape.

But Arthur's shoulders slumped a little as he relaxed. "A week ago? What changed?"

Merlin hesitated, then shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said. "I mean, you did toss me in the dungeons."

"Alright, that—"

"And I mean, you did that more than once."

"Today doesn't—"

Merlin laughed, "Well, I suppose I can't hold that against you. You're the prince after all, even if you are a prat."

Without waiting, Arthur turned away and kept moving. His pace was quicker now, but Merlin kept up without too much trouble, having been prepared now for Arthur to take off. The serving boy only fell a bit behind when he heard Arthur mutter, in a voice that Merlin knew he wasn't supposed to discern,

"That doesn't always make me right."

 _Something is wrong_ , Merlin noted, as Arthur continued, louder now, "Come along, Merlin. This tunnel is a bit dark, if you hadn't noticed."

Never in his life had Merlin not wanted to leave a place so much.

* * *

 _Thanks for favs and the follows. As always I appreciate feedback.  
Have a great weekend~_


	5. Chapter Four

"They should be here by now," Morgana said, her voice high with worry.

"I'm sure they'll be along soon," Gaius comforted. The two stood just beyond a grate that blocked entry to one of Camelot's sewage tunnels, a single saddled stallion beside them. On the other side of the horse stood Guinevere, who fiddled anxiously with the straps, double checking and then triple checking them for security. She checked, perhaps for the sixth time, the knots of two small bags she had tied to the saddle, one full of bread and the other, a smaller one, contained a meager number of coins. Strapped on the other side of the horse was a sword her father had made. Gaius had mentioned multiple times that Merlin didn't need a sword (not that he really knew how to use one), but Arthur had insisted she find the boy one. Gwen hadn't questioned him. She knew that while helping Merlin escape was ultimately for Uther's sake, this small sword was Arthur's way of apologizing.

A finely forged weapon was, at any rate, the only way Arthur really knew how to communicate.

"They should be here," Morgana repeated, and Gaius opened his mouth yet again to try and comfort the ward, when someone called out his name.

"Gaius," Merlin hissed, his face against the bars of the grate.

"Merlin!" the physician said, taking a step towards the tunnel. He smiled, but it was quickly covered by a sleeve as the scent of the sewer reached him.

"Merlin, any time you feel like it," Arthur said.

"Hold on!" Merlin said, looking over his shoulder and then returning to Gaius. "Do you have the book?"

"The book?" Gaius said, momentarily puzzled, and then, "Oh yes! Morgana, the book, it's—yes—"

Morgana reached a hand into the saddle, slipping out a bound leather book, and passed it to Gaius. Gwen didn't fail to notice the mildly interested expression cross the ward's face as she saw the rune etched on the cover.

"Somewhere in there… towards the middle… yes, that's it!" Merlin said as Gaius flipped through the pages. The physician oriented the book towards his (former) apprentice, who's lips moved as he repeated a spell to himself a couple of times. After rehearsing a few more moments, Merlin's face disappeared from view, but his voice echoed out, "Alright, please step back everyone," and an incomprehensible string of words followed this warning. Gwen watched, half stupefied, half amazed, as the grate sparked, and then flew outwards from the tunnel.

Though Merlin had been in front to blow the grate, it was Arthur that stepped out of the tunnel first, his (former?) serving boy just behind him.

"Who would have thought it was so easy to break someone out of Camelot's dungeons?" Morgana asked to the air.

"It was only because I was leading the break out," Arthur said. "Not just anyone could outsmart the Knights."

"I'm not sure a smoke bomb is outsmarting," Merlin said. "More like suffocating—"

"Do you want to go back?" Arthur said. Merlin threw up his hands in surrender.

From within the castle walls, an alarm bell tolled.

"Alright, time to go," Arthur said. "The horse is for you, Merlin," he indicated.

Merlin looked confused. "It is?"

"Yes, Merlin. You're escaping, remember?"

"Actually escaping, though? As in, outside Camelot?"

"Yes, Merlin. Were you planning to just run around the castle your entire time as a fugitive?" Arthur asked. The expression on Merlin's face suggested that the boy hadn't thought he would be a fugitive long enough for his location to be an issue.

"Merlin," Morgana said, but Arthur cut her off.

"We're going to do everything we can," he said. "I want to—I'm going to—I need to—" Arthur was struggling for the right words, and he sighed before continuing, "Well, I just need time…to understand my father."

There was silence, and then Merlin asked, "Why?"

"Because, Merlin," Arthur explained, his gaze strong, "a Camelot that unfairly abandons even some of its people is not a Camelot I want to be prince of. Now get on the horse," and Merlin did so without another question.

In the fashion of an indefinite goodbye, each of them gave Merlin a smile and a word.

"I'll have your favorite meal waiting for you, Merlin, so come back when you can," Gaius said.

"Be safe, and don't you dare ruin that cloak," Morgana commanded.

"Don't worry," Gwen comforted. "Arthur will have this all straightened out."

And finally, testing the saddle strap one last time, Prince Arthur ordered, "Don't come back before I tell you to, alright?"

"But—" Merlin started.

"Just this once, Merlin," Arthur seemed to plead, "do what I say."

* * *

Merlin rode Camelot's horse hours after he lost sight of the city. He wasn't sure where to go or what to do. He had briefly considered going home, to Ealdor, but if Camelot's Knights searched and found him hiding there…

That alone was almost enough to keep him away; the other deciding factor being the look his mother would give him when she found out about his troubles. Not disappointment, or fear, or pity, but a look of unconditional love that Merlin had never felt worthy of, and he particularly didn't feel worthy of now.

No, he finally realized, he would have to go beyond Camelot's borders, at least for the time being.

As he reached the crest of a hill, seeing the sun above the horizon staining the sky orange and pink, he quietly hoped that "for the time being" wasn't too awfully long of a time.

* * *

 _I apologize for the shorter chapter. I wanted to get an update out, but I don't like what I originally wrote to go immediately after this.  
Expect two updates this coming week, possibly one as early as this weekend. _

_As always, thank you so much for the feedback and reviews, and favorites and follows.  
Have a great weekend, and I do hope all is well with each of you._


	6. Jen and the Bully

The bell on the door jingled like a hyper cat's collar, but Merlin did not hear.

He was in the back, breathing carefully, a book nearly as old as himself resting lazily on the table top in front of him.

A young man in a long black wool coat had brought it by Merlin's shop this morning. Found it in his grandparents' attic, the young man had said. "Repair it, and tell me how much it's worth."

"You're looking to sell it?" Merlin had asked. The young man nodded and shrugged.

"What do I want a book like that for?" the young man asked. Merlin, quite literally, had to bite his tongue to keep from responding, but a look must have shown on his face, because the young man added, "You want it, Old Man?"

Merlin let his brow furrow, but said calmly, in spite of himself, "That will depend on how much you will be selling it for."

The young man had laughed. "'A wise old man, an honest old man, and a grumpy old man are usually all the same old man. Or three old rivals,'" he said. "Or at least that's what my grandmother used to say. But then, she'd been married to two other men before my grandfather."

Merlin had scoffed in disinterest, and the young man had left, a smile on his face as he tipped his hat, and the small bell tinging like it was a puppy in a new family.

And so now Merlin stood in the back of his shop, staring at the book on the tabletop and wondering how best to fix it. There weren't many books this old, not one in this good of condition, and so Merlin felt that repairing it was not something he should have been tasked to do. He imagined the local university would have been a better father for it. He may be old, but he was new to the old book industry. And besides, he ran an antiques shop. His limited number of rare and old books that had begun to accumulate within it did not mean he was planning a foray into bookselling. One had to actually be able to part with a book in order to sell it. Books, like Merlin and the lake, were one of the few things that inherently hadn't changed over the past millennia. And Merlin hadn't been able to part with the lake either.

He extracted the scissors from the drawer of the cabinet in the corner, and holding them in his mouth he pulled the binding tape from his pocket. He looked at the tape in his hands and shook his head. He did not have the proper tools for this. He'd just set it first. Then he'd pay a visit to that young woman with the gray hair dyed orange in the history department at the university that had asked him to dinner last month. He nearly shuddered at the thought, but this poor book deserved better. He removed the scissors from his mouth, and carefully approached the old book. Using the tip of the scissors, he lifted the cover. _Wait_ , he suddenly thought, _do I even—_

" _THAT'S THE JINGLE BELL – THAT'S THE JINGLE BELL – THAT'S THE JINGLE BELL ROOOOOOCK!"_

Merlin almost screamed. Instead he just glared at Jen, who had thrown open the backroom door, stomped in loudly in her wet winter boots, and singing something Merlin had recently learned was considered a Christmas carol at the top of her lungs.

Merlin sighed, exasperated. He'd dropped the scissors, and was well aware that the surprise of this sudden visit had caused him to jump, the cover of the book opening harder and faster than originally intended. That was probably why the cover was now a completely separate piece from the binding. It lay forlornly singular on the table top.

"Jen," the old sorcerer scolded, "this is where I _work_."

"And not one winter decoration," Jen tsked. She dropped her bag on the ground and began to unbutton her bright blue winter coat. Merlin had once told her that she looked like Violet Beaureguarde, but Jen had just called him old. Whether she was referring to 1964, 1971, or 2005, all were before Jen was born, and therefore all were old.

"Is it Christmas again? I hadn't noticed," Merlin replied, grunting a bit as he bent over to pick up the scissors. Jen watched him with a pout.

"You could at least play some music," she said. "Maybe people would actually stop in if they heard 'Christmas Shoes,' or 'Winter Wonderland,' or 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree.'"

"If you don't like the way I run my shop, then stop coming by so much," Merlin said indignantly as he tossed the scissors back in their drawer. He pulled the binding tape from his pocket and tossed it in there too. "I personally prefer 'Ave Maria'," he added after a moment. "The version by Mr. Bubbles is pretty good, anyways. Or his rendition of 'Santa Baby.'"

" _Bublé_ , dummy. He's French or something—"

"Canadian, I think—"

"Whatever," Jen interrupted, rolling her eyes. She grabbed her bag. "Come on," she added.

"What for?" Merlin said with a grimace. Jen opened her bag, a string of white lights falling out.

"Jen," Merlin started, not sure how to explain that he had seen too many Christmases over too many centuries to believe in it the way people did today.

"Thirteen days," Jen said. "If you don't do Christmas, just think of them as Hanukkah lights or for the Winter Solstice—"

"You're ten. Do you even know what the Winter Solstice is?" Merlin asked, teasing.

"I'm eleven," Jen corrected. "And I'm not stupid." She gave Merlin a pleading look. "Please? I'll even take them down for you."

Merlin chuckled softly. "Then what's the point of putting them up?"

"Spirit," Jen replied. "Lights make people happy. They let people know that you're happy." Jen paused, looking the old sorcerer in the eyes, shy, but determined. "And most importantly," she finally added, "they let people know you want to be happy."

She took off out of the room before Merlin could say anything else. The old sorcerer grinned a bit to himself, and then sighed. He looked at the old book, the cover completely separate from the rest of the binding.

" _Gebétee_ _bóc_ ," Merlin muttered, and as he followed Jen, the cover of the book lifted and reattached itself. It sat on the table, whole, as if it had never come unbound in the first place.

* * *

Jen rubbed her hands furiously together, willing them to warm up as the old man placed a cup of tea in front of her. She sat at the counter at the front of his shop, in a chair he had placed there just for her when she began to regularly stop by and demand homework help. The old man was pretty good with history and science, but his arithmetic and math were rather lacking. _He is old_ , Jen always reminded herself. Sometimes, talking to the old man, she forgot just how old he was. At least thirty was her guess. Almost as old as her mum, definitely. Her mum wasn't very good at math either.

"You didn't come by just to force me into religion, did you?" the old man said, leaning on the counter across from Jen. They'd just come in from putting the lights up along the store front. While the young girl still wore her coat, he had taken his off, and it hung now on the coat rack against the wall behind him. A warm mug sat on the counter beside his elbow.

Jen did not respond right away, because he wasn't wrong, but she wasn't sure she wanted him to know he was right.

"Maybe I just like it here," she retorted. And she did like it here. She liked his shop, with its old, always burning fireplace in the right corner. He kept only a shelf worth of his books there – Jen had seen what had to be his whole collection before – with some of the old furniture close by. The rest of the room was cluttered with stuff, old stuff, _ancient_ stuff (a word that Jen did not use easily). All of it was for sale, technically, but not all of it could be bought.

The old man just looked at her, an eyebrow cocked, as he lifted his mug to his lips and took a sip. Jen sighed.

"There's this boy," she finally said, and the old man choked. He coughed, spilling some tea from his mug on to the counter, which he wiped with his sleeve. He put the mug down, and coughed again. Jen laughed. The old man glared at her as he bit back another strangled cough.

"Funny," he said after a moment, still glaring, Jen still smiling. The two then sat in silence for a while. He would wait for her to speak now, not pushing her to talk. That's what she liked best about him. Her parents, her teachers, all they wanted her to do was talk, or not talk. If something was wrong, they had to know because if they didn't, they were bad parents and she was a troubled child. If she had nothing troubling to tell them, they preferred she said nothing at all. But sometimes, Jen just wanted to talk, and sometimes she just didn't want to. Sometimes, when all her parents could do was call up other parents, Jen felt it wasn't worth the trouble her talking would cause. Sometimes it was best just to let the kids deal with it.

"He's mad at me, I think," Jen finally said.

"Did you kick him?" the old man asked and Jen glowered.

"What makes you think _I_ kicked _him_?"

"It's more likely than him kicking you."

"Well, he didn't get kicked."

"Then who got kicked?"

"No one! No one got kicked. We're grade-schoolers, not barbarians—"

"That's debatable—"

"It is not! We talked it out like grade-schoolers."

"So there was name calling."

"Just the nice ones, I called her a meanie and she called me stupid."

"Her? What happened to him?"

"If you let me tell the story, you'll find out."

"Alright, alright, I'm listening."

Jen straightened in her chair and cleared her throat. "On a playground with creaky swings and plastic slides, the peace of playtime was the responsibility of one grade-schooler, her name—"

"I'm not going to listen if you're just going to make fun of me."

"Now who's the grade-schooler?"

"Just get on with it, yeah?"

Jen sighed. "I helped him with a bully and now he won't talk to me."

"Ah," said the old man, as if that sentence clarified everything. "A boy's pride is a fragile thing."

"But I _helped_ him."

"You defended him."

"There's a difference?"

"You were the knight, he was the damsel."

Jen scoffed. "What's wrong with being a damsel?"

Merlin shrugged, and took a sip of his tea. "To an eleven year old boy? Everything. It's probably his dream to be the knight."

"Well, I'm not going to be the damsel."

"Who said you had to be?" the old man paused, and with nothing more to say, Jen just stared despondently into her mug. She didn't think it had to be this complicated. Couldn't he just say, _thank you,_ and play tag with her like usual? "There are many damsels in this world, and there's plenty of knights," the old man continued. "And it doesn't really matter which one you are, which one you want to be. We've all been both at least once in our lives, but it takes courage to admit that."

"That we're both damsels and knights?"

"That we need help just as often as we can help." Jen was confused, and it must have shown on her face, because the old man clarified: "It takes courage to admit that we can't ever do anything solely on our own."

Jen sighed, not as much satisfied as done with the conversation. Sometimes the old man only knew how to speak in riddles. Probably because he was way more than thirty years old.

The old man took a sip of his tea and stood up, stretching his arms. "What about him?" Jen asked, and now the old man gave her the confused look.

"Him? Him who? Your friend?"

"No, the wizard—"

"Sorcerer," the old man corrected, and when Jen gave him an exasperated look, he pointed to his head. "No pointy hat." He held out his hands. "No wand. Therefore, sorcerer." Jen just rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," she said, "him."

* * *

 _An extra update, as promised.  
_

 _There will be another later this week, as per usual.  
As always, thanks for the reviews and the follows and the favorites. I appreciate all feedback._

 _Also, I feel the need to point out that I usually don't write holiday stuff, but my roommate was really enjoying her Christmas playlist this weekend and I couldn't help it. It's a surprise Mariah Carey wasn't the one to make a cameo in this bit._

 _All the best, and stay warm this holiday season. Or cool. Whichever better suits your hemisphere.  
_


	7. Chapter Five

They all lost count of exactly how long Merlin was gone, even the young sorcerer himself lost track of the months as they bled into a year, though perhaps not quite into two. No one could be blamed for this of course; Merlin had only resided in Camelot a week, and though it had been an eventful one with a number of lingering side-effects, it was one short moment in the long lives of men.

And after all, in a magic-less Camelot, life wasn't particularly forgiving.

Soon after Merlin left, there was some trouble with a witch—my apologies, sorceress— named Nimueh, who poisoned the water supply in hopes of destroying Uther and his beloved Camelot. Unaware of the boy Merlin and his influence on the lives of Camelot's finest, Nimueh was of course ill-prepared to deal with Uther's righteous son and magic-curious ward, aided by an intelligent and daring serving girl and an old man with a few magic tricks still tucked up his sleeve.

It should be noted, of course, that about six months after Merlin escaped, word of his continued existence still made its way back to Camelot through a man that quite quickly became a mutual friend. Lancelot was a strong and brave fellow, if not of noble birth, and with ease had saved Arthur's backside from being torn apart by a particularly nasty thing called "the Questing Beast." Though it seemed that saving the prince's life was of little value to the king. Without argument, just a promise to look after "the clumsy country-boy they both knew," Lancelot accepted Uther's refusal to admit him to the Knights—something that Arthur again questioned, and Uther again scolded him for.

But after Lancelot's exile, the months passed quite slowly, devoid of drama or word of a boy who was best friends with trouble. But, in the nagging way only he could, Merlin persisted in the minds of them all.

Gwen often stopped in to Gaius's tower to help the old man with the marigold grinding and rare leaf gathering. He never asked her for her help, but he was beyond grateful for it. He truly did need an apprentice, though if he had no interest in finding one before Merlin had stumbled into Camelot, then the old physician certainly didn't want one now.

And when Gaius made himself dinner, he always made enough for two, offering the other portion to his daily guest Morgana. At one point the young woman stopped asking for a remedy for her nightmares, preferring instead to hear bits of Gaius's wisdom over a bowl of soup. In the hours in which Uther thought she was sewing or buying dresses or doing something ordinarily (and quite honestly a bit laughably) feminine, Morgana was actually most likely to be found in Merlin's old bedroom, where Gaius had hinted that he kept a few good books hidden under the floorboards. She never let him see her reading one of the old spellbooks, and perhaps under other circumstances Gaius would have kept them far from her grasp, but he too had seen the look she gave the spellbook as she'd handed it to him that night long ago. Morgana would never be able to deny the allure of magic, Gaius realized. With any luck, the events with Merlin both taught her to be cautious and to remember she was not alone.

Arthur, on the other hand, had never felt more alone in his life. He had of course gotten a new manservant, a phenomenally dull but efficient young man named Gregory who showed up for work on time and was not the least bit magical. He never called Arthur a prat, but he also never did any life-saving, whether it be assisting in getting rid of a possessed locket (that Arthur had needed Gwen's help with) or asking the simple question, "Are you alright?"

To be honest, Arthur had lived most of his life feeling alone, he just hadn't been aware of it. And so while he was perfectly capable of feigning he was fine, he had, more than ever, become determined to be his own person, to be a better man than his father. To create a Camelot that was truly fair.

Perhaps largely, but he would never admit this, so that his friend could come home.

* * *

In the English language, there is an idiom: "to throw down the gauntlet." It is used in times of challenge, when an individual feels particularly passionate but their passion is being denied, and they need their two legs to stand, but they are being forced to sit, restrained by the sheer weight of being human. In these moments, all one needs to do is slide the glove from one's hand and throw it to the earth.

And that is exactly what she did.

When she fought her way into Camelot's throne room, the last thing anyone expected was a woman, and though Morgause was a brave, passionate, intelligent, and independent woman, it took all of these qualities and an intractable desire for acceptance to give her the courage to stand in that throne room and throw down her gauntlet.

She almost didn't do it. Just that morning she had been atop her horse, at the edge of Camelot's borders. He'd followed her this far, but she knew he wouldn't take another step. He wasn't ready for that yet. She wasn't even sure she was ready for it, and that's what made her hesitate.

"You just need to be patient," he said, as he always said, though he never explained to Morgause why he said that.

"For how long? And even if I felt I could wait, how could I abandon my sister? I need to, in the very least, save my sister from him," she replied.

"I promise you," Merlin protested, "Morgana is fine. Uther cares greatly for her."

"It matters little whether he cares for her or not; as long as he guards her, she won't be able to be free."

"There are ways to live in Camelot with magic—" at this Morgause gave him a look that seemed to suggest he was being naïve, and perhaps he was, Merlin had mused many times before that conversation—but he continued, "And besides, last I saw her, it was only the nightmares that troubled her."

"The nightmares are only the beginning. All Seers are drawn to sorcery, and Morgana, despite the threats that loom over her, will want to learn it. And…" Morgause's voice trailed off, but Merlin had heard this argument many times before.

"The prince isn't like his father—"

"Even if he isn't, can the two really be so different? Would Uther have allowed his son to accept magic?"

"Arthur isn't his father—"

"But that's not enough!" Morgause yelled, and Merlin sighed. "Our kind, we have been hunted for over twenty years, how can that not anger you?"

"I never said it didn't! But this isn't something you can force to happen."

"I can't—more will die, Merlin. And if Morgana…" Morgause's voice couldn't bear to give sound to her thoughts, so she continued: "I need to do this. All I'm going to do is tell the prince the truth, that he owes magic his life. Perhaps then he'll learn what must be done. If you weren't a coward," Morgause glared pointedly at Merlin, who looked at her forlornly, "you'd help."

But as Merlin muttered, "I'm trying," Morgause kicked the horse's flank and took off into Camelot's forest.

And that is how she came to stand in the throne room.

The fact that her plan was working so far renewed her confidence and reassured her that she was doing the right thing.

She knew she could defeat the prince; that's not the part that set her nerves on fire. It was what the boy had said, what he'd been saying since she ran into him just outside Camelot's borders over a year ago. He'd always told her to be patient.

But she had been. Her whole life, she had been patient. While Uther's witch hunts killed the people she had come to consider her family and many of her friends lived terrified, wandering the lands endlessly without a home, she had been patient.

And it wasn't as though she had intentions to kill Arthur. Originally, she thought she might have to, but if what Merlin had been telling her was true, then maybe the prince just needed proof that Camelot was nothing without magic and sorcery.

She had to do something. Merlin just didn't understand that. He hadn't seen the things she'd seen, felt the things she'd felt, so he just couldn't understand that something had to be done. Morgause didn't have the heart to be patient anymore.

"I'll spare your life if you'll accept another challenge," she told the prince, sword tip to his throat.

"What?" he said calmly, and she rather admired the sense of control he managed to maintain.

"After I leave Camelot, on the night of the full moon, come find me, and listen to what I have to say."

Arthur stared at her, no emotion showing on his face. Then, having made his decision, he replied, "Yes, alright. I will come find you."

With a smile, Morgause withdrew her sword, sheathing it, and offered the prince a hand. The honorable sport Arthur was, he took it.

And Morgause left Camelot the following afternoon successful on all accounts. The prince would come find her and she would show him the truth. With the bracelet, her sister's nights would be at peace until the two could meet again, perhaps next time as allies and siblings.

She travelled to the Isle where she found Merlin making himself dinner. She told him of her success, and to her dismay, he did not congratulate her, just merely nodded.

"He'll be here the full moon," she told Merlin, who looked at her, mildly surprised.

"That's tomorrow."

"Yes, well, it's when my magic's the strongest, you know." Merlin didn't answer. He just picked at the fish he had grilled. "Are you going to be here?" Morgause asked after a moment. Now that her plan was in motion, a plan that Merlin had made perfectly clear he didn't agree with, their relationship seemed rather unclear.

Merlin shook his head. "No," he answered. "I'm leaving tonight."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know," Merlin said with a shrug. He knew where he wanted to go, but he couldn't. Not yet.

"What will you do?"

At this question, Merlin tensed. "I don't know," he replied again. He did know, but he couldn't tell her.

"You can't stop him," Morgause said, as if reading Merlin's mind. "If Arthur doesn't come tomorrow night, whether you're the cause of it or not, I'll… I'll… my hand will be forced." Though forced to do what, Morgause didn't know herself.

Though he had come to care for Morgause over the past year and a half, Merlin hadn't once forgotten how powerful she was. Empty a threat or not, Merlin would be wary when he risked it.

There was just enough trust between them to allow Morgause to let Merlin leave in peace that night. A trust based on the fact that both of them wanted the same thing; both of them wanted to live without being afraid.

Merlin felt heavy as he left the Isle that evening. As he stepped on to the boat, the gloves he'd bought in the market of a border town the previous winter fell from his back pocket, one landing on the shore and the other atop Avalon's waters.

He would finally have to do something, he supposed.

* * *

 _First and foremost, thanks so much for reading this far. More to come._

 _For all the people leaving reviews - seriously thanks so much for taking the additional time to do so. I know it's kind of a hassle sometimes, but all your comments make me unbelievably happy, and (this is to everyone) never hesitate to leave a review of any kind or pm me about anything.  
Thanks also, of course, to everyone who has favorited and followed this story._

 _Update: I added an additional part to this chapter, though it's only been a couple hours since I posted._

 _Best wishes, and enjoy your weekends._


	8. Chapter Six

The sun was rapidly setting and Arthur's horse was slow. Which he didn't appreciate. He'd tried, multiple times, to urge the stallion forward by prodding the animal's sides with his heels, but apparently the stable-hand had given the prince the kingdom's slowest, oldest inhabitant.

"I don't have time for this," Arthur muttered under his breath. At this rate, he'd arrive at the Isle after the full moon had dipped below the horizon and who knew what the sorceress would do then. Certainly not let Arthur leave alive, and the prince, though he loathed to admit it, knew he would be at her mercy.

He was about halfway there, he reasoned, though he had hoped to be at the lakeshore by now. He just sighed, resigning to his fate and hoping for the sake of it that the horse would see fit to speed up. As if in response, the horse neighed, and appeared to slow down.

"Really?" Arthur asked. "Come now, I could walk faster than this." And, realizing he wasn't exaggerating, the prince decided to do just that. Sliding off the horse and gripping the reins loosely, Arthur tried to encourage a brisker pace. He'd barely made it a couple steps before tripping over a tree branch, his nose hitting the dirt with an unpleasant thud.

The prince sighed, dragged himself to his feet, and rubbing his nose, he continued on his way. And promptly tripped again.

He caught himself this time, his hands bracing his fall; "You've got to be kidding me." For another half an hour, the prince made his way through the forest, dodging roots and branches that seemed to come out of nowhere. At some point, he could have sworn he even tripped over a shoelace.

The horse followed idly just behind him, and while Arthur knew that the snicker he heard every time he fell was the animal laughing at him, he wondered if the horse's accompanying whinny was.

Eventually, Arthur came to a small stream, and despite his best efforts to cross the rocks, his foot slipped. He lifted it from the muddy water, his foot thoroughly soaked, and trudged his way to dry land. Once there, he looked around and through the trees. The wind picked up and leaves flew into Arthur's face. The prince, as annoyed as his boot was wet, dragged a sleeve across his face to knock away the leaves and hollered into the night,

"Merlin! Keep it up, and I will hunt you down."

"It's not really a hunt if I give myself up," the young sorcerer said, stepping out from behind a tree. He leaned against it, and gave Arthur a smile.

The prince, not sure whether he would rather embrace the boy or hit him, opted to do neither.

"You shouldn't be here," Arthur merely said.

"Neither should you."

"Excuse you, this is my father's kingdom. I can be anywhere I please!"

Merlin laughed. "Actually, you're in Odin's lands." And when Arthur looked perplexedly annoyed, the young sorcerer continued, "You haven't changed much." Merlin smiled a bit sadly. "But really, you shouldn't be here. You should go back to Camelot."

"I'm on a quest," Arthur recovered.

"To see Morgause, I know. And I'm telling you, don't."

"You know of her?"

Merlin was silent. Arthur scoffed.

"You haven't changed much either, warning me against others."

"Just trust me this time, please."

"This isn't a matter of trust," Arthur said, not bothering to add what he at least thought was obvious—that Merlin was one of the few he would always trust. "I made a promise."

"Arthur," Merlin pleaded. But the prince ignored him and began to walk forward.

Sighing, Merlin moved off the tree and caught up. "I'll come with you, then," he said.

They walked along in silence for a while. Arthur held the horse's rein, letting the animal pull them in the proper direction. Merlin followed behind, making no indication that he knew where they were or where they were going.

* * *

They reached the water in very little time.

Arthur looked around. "Where are we?" he asked, and Merlin shrugged.

"I was following you."

"Well, I was following the horse."

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "The horse? Why would the horse know where we're going?"

"Because that's what Morgause said. 'Follow the horse, the horse will know,'" Arthur explained defensively. "I don't know how this works, you're the sorcerer, not me!"

"Thank the goddess for that," Merlin muttered. He looked around, ignoring whatever response the price retorted.

He spotted the pile of wood on the lakeshore he'd left just hours earlier. "Come on," Merlin waved Arthur to come with him. Still holding the horse's reins, the prince followed skeptically.

"Now what are you doing?"

"Shush," Merlin said, relishing the look Arthur shot him. The sorcerer held out a hand and muttered a transform incantation. When a small boat rested on the shore, he looked over at the prince sheepishly.

But Arthur seemed unfazed. "A bit small, don't you think?"

"Well I only had so much wood!"

"This is a forest," Arthur said, sweeping his arm out. "We're surrounded by wood."

"Sorry," Merlin apologized, "I guess I forgot to account for your princely ego."

"The horse!" Arthur snapped. "I was talking about there being no room for the horse!"

Merlin blinked. "The horse? Why would bring the horse on the boat?"

"Well if he won't fit on the boat then we'll just have to ride him through the water. We can't leave the horse, Merlin." Arthur's tone was so bemused, Merlin couldn't help but break into a wide smile and laugh. "What?" the prince snapped.

"The—the lake is too deep to ride through," Merlin laughed. "Come on—"

"You know where we are," Arthur realized.

Merlin did his best to play dumb, not having meant to let on that he did, indeed, know where they were.

"Wha— _what_? I—I do not—Why—" But he noticed the look Arthur was giving him. It was the same look he'd earned asking about the front door. Merlin was silent for a heartbeat, then he continued, "Well, of course I know where we are. I stay at an inn about half a day that ways, sometimes, anyways."

To Merlin's surprise, Arthur laughed. "Yes," the prince said, "I heard about the tavern you frequent."

"It is an _inn_ that _just so happens_ to have a tavern in it!"

"Or is it that it's a _tavern_ that _just so happens_ to have a pile of hay you can sleep on?" Arthur mockingly questioned. "I'll be honest, I never took you for a drinker, but Lancelot tells me you can keep up with the best of them."

"I'll kill him," Merlin said, red in the face. Arthur nearly fell over with laughter.

The prince's laughter only made Merlin's blush deepen, and so Arthur, having recovered a bit, slapped the sorcerer on the shoulder.

Merlin grimaced. "Anyways," he snapped, "We can leave the horse. I know where you can find Morgause."

"You do?" Arthur was suddenly very serious.

"She's a sorceress, right? Well, I know where the magicians are. At least in these woods anyways," Merlin quickly explained. Arthur let Merlin take the horse from him, and turned away while the young sorcerer tied the animal to a nearby tree.

He didn't think anything shown on his face, but in case it did, he'd rather Merlin not see it. He trusted the boy completely, but despite his best efforts, magic still made him wary.

"Well, come on," Merlin interrupted Arthur's thoughts, pushing past him and climbing into the boat. Sighing, Arthur followed suit. He kicked the boat effortlessly from the shore.

There was silence as the boat began to drift across the water.

"Well, Merlin, it seems you really haven't changed," Arthur laughed.

"A year in the woods, did you really expect me to grow up at all?"

Arthur smiled. _I was rather hoping not_ , he thought, but didn't dare say aloud. Instead he complained, "This is going to take all night." There was a noise from where Merlin sat at the back of the boat.

"Here," Merlin said, and Arthur looked over, to see that the boy was holding out the handle of an oar.

"What is that?" Arthur simply asked.

"It's a paddle," Merlin explained.

"Oh, good, let's get going then," Arthur said. Whether or not he was feigning ignorance, Merlin couldn't tell. So the young sorcerer sighed, and began paddling.

Five minutes later, they had reached the shore of the Isle of the Blessed, though Arthur was unaware of such a name. As the prince stepped out, Merlin followed, and dragged the boat onto the sand.

Arthur trudged his way up the shore a bit, not noticing that Merlin lingered behind. The young sorcerer wondered what to do. He wanted to stick by Arthur's side, follow the prince into his meeting with Morgause, but her threat skittered through his mind. Should he risk it? She was powerful, and Merlin wasn't entirely sure he would be any competition against her.

"Merlin!" Arthur called, looking back at the boy. "Hurry up, will you?"

Then again, if he stayed behind, he would have to make up some excuse – or worse, tell the truth, because that always seemed to work in his favor.

"Coming!"

* * *

The cave let out among the numerous ruins on the Isle. Arthur seemed unbothered, but the air felt thick with tension to Merlin. It was suffocating, not unlike a forest fire, and he found himself hoping that it was his own stress, and not a sign that Morgause knew he was here.

Arthur had taken barely a couple steps into the clearing between the ruins before Morgause showed herself. Merlin instinctively hung back in the shadows, despite his anxiety that made him want to be right next to the prince.

"You came," Morgause simply stated.

"I promised," Arthur replied. "What is it you want of me?"

Morgause didn't answer, but took a few steps closer to Arthur. The prince didn't move, but Merlin did. He stepped forward, clear of the shadows.

Morgause saw him, and her eyes flashed slightly. Merlin met her gaze, feeling a bit proud that she hadn't sensed him beforehand. The sorceress looked away, an expression crossing her face so fast that Merlin couldn't quite place it, but then she continued on seemingly unfazed.

"Nothing more is required of you." She shrugged.

"What?" Merlin could hear Arthur's confusion.

"I was just curious, Young Prince, what type of man you are. Now I know. You're a man that keeps his word." Morgause made eye contact again with Merlin. "A rarity in this world," she added. Merlin's jaw tightened noticeably.

Arthur, catching Morgause's distraction, looked back at his friend.

"Merlin, is something wrong?"

"No," the young sorcerer said, pulling his gaze from Morgause to Arthur. "Why would anything be wrong?"

The prince smiled a bit. "Then why are you standing all the way over there? You magicians, you're like wolves, sizing each other up."

Merlin flinched as Morgause laughed.

"So you know," she said to Arthur after a moment. "Really, Merlin, I didn't know you two were _that_ close," she added now, this time to Merlin.

"That makes two of us," Arthur muttered, looking at his friend. "I thought you only knew _of_ her."

The young sorcerer took in a breath. The truth never worked in his favor, but he'd forgotten that lies are usually what made it worse.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Morgause jumped in. From Merlin's perspective, she seemed to be enjoying this. Was she that mad at him? "I taught him everything he knows."

"Not everything." Merlin glared. "But that's not important right now." He walked up to Arthur. "She's got nothing else for you, let's go."

The prince didn't move. In fact, he just kind of looked at Merlin. The boy sighed, "Come on, Arthur, did you expect me not to run into other magicians?"

"Well, I can't say I thought about it one way or another, but I'm more curious as to why you lied."

"I didn't lie," Merlin offered. "Sort of."

Morgause let out a laugh that echoed around the ruins.

"Sort of? Because I seem to recall an exact phrase—"Arthur started.

"Yes, alright, I'm sorry. Can we just leave, and discuss this later?"

"Why do you want to leave so badly?" the prince asked, suspicious.

"Yes, Merlin, what's the rush?" Morgause cut in. "You know there's things I can do for the prince."

Merlin glared darkly at Morgause. "Don't," he snapped.

The sorceress's eyebrows lifted gently. "You keep saying that to me," she spoke softly. "But look where it's gotten you."

"He doesn't need anything from you."

"Merlin," Arthur demanded, "what the hell is going on?"

The hurt in the prince's eyes left Merlin speechless, and Morgause took over the conversation again. "I'd like to reward you, Prince, for keeping your word. You're an honest man, you deserve equal respect."

Arthur looked away from Merlin and to Morgause. "Reward?" he asked puzzled.

"Arthur, please," Merlin pleaded quietly, but the prince ignored him.

"Since your _friend_ there hasn't told you anything about me, I'm sure he didn't tell you what my greatest talent is," Morgause continued. When Arthur said nothing, she explained, "I can provide an answer any question."

"Any question?" Arthur repeated.

Morgause nodded. "I recommend you choose wisely, since I'll only answer one question for you."

Merlin held his breath. He begged whoever was listening that the prince would choose a question that didn't require too interesting an answer.

Then, suddenly, Arthur shook his head. "Sorry, but I don't have a question that needs answering."

Morgause looked shocked. "Not one?" she recovered. The prince shook his head.

"Well," he corrected, "if I'm being honest, which apparently I am, I have plenty questions. I just don't have any that I'd trust your answer to."

Morgause chuckled. "One would think you're surrounded by liars, Young Prince."

"It appears I am," Arthur replied sullenly. He turned to go, and Morgause made eye contact with Merlin. His expression was sad, but hers was different. And it changed. First it was hurt, and then it was—

"Are you coming, Merlin?" Arthur called. The young sorcerer turned away.

"Is there no one you trust?" Morgause attempted again.

Arthur scoffed, but didn't answer.

"Is there not even one person, alive or dead, that you trust to give you an answer you seek?" Merlin thought he heard a hint of desperation in Morgause's voice.

"Dead?" Arthur repeated, stopping and looking back at the sorceress.

"Arthur," Merlin pleaded, catching up to Arthur so he stood by the prince's side. "Let's go."

"I'm an accomplished necromancer," Morgause explained. "I can summon anyone you wish, but of course, your question will have to be more specific. Something they'd know." Arthur was silent, but his expression made Morgause comfortable that she had his interest. "Is there anyone at all—"

"My mother," Arthur interrupted, his voice cracking. Merlin paled.

"Arthur, please, let's go," he requested, grabbing the prince's shoulder. He was shrugged off.

"Why are you so eager? Are you hiding something else?" Arthur snapped, and Merlin shrank away despite himself.

The prince looked resolutely at Morgause. "My mother," he repeated, his voice surer. "I have a question for my mother."

* * *

"Arthur," Merlin repeated for the hundredth time. Coming back from the meeting, the prince had ignored him, walking fast enough to make sure the young sorcerer was always a few steps behind. Merlin had barely made it into the boat, which Arthur had tossed into the water roughly, and the two had crossed the water in complete silence. Arthur had paddled.

Having reached the mainland on the other side, Merlin had climbed out of the boat, eager to pull it ashore as soon as the prince had disembarked. "Arthur—" Merlin pleaded again, but the prince was distracted by many, many things. As he stepped out into the water, Arthur's boot had caught on the rim of the boat, the oar tumbling into the water as the boat jostled angrily with the prince's frustrated jerks of movement.

"Bloody—" Arthur cussed as he bent down to grab the oar. But before his hand got wet, Merlin reached in, pulling the handle gently out of the water and passing it to Arthur with a look.

"Arthur," he said.

" _Prince_ Arthur," the prince scolded. "What?" he spat, seeing the grim look on Merlin's face.

"Nothing," the sorcerer said, sloshing a few steps closer toward the shore. "Let's go."

"I'll go," Arthur said. "You stay here!"

"What? Why?"

"You knew," Arthur spat, and Merlin tensed. "You knew what she would say and you didn't think to tell me first?"

"I warned you to stay away."

"Oh, please, as if that makes a difference! You should have told me!"

"Why? Why would I tell you something like that?"

"Because—" But Merlin wasn't finished.

"How do you tell someone that?" he interrupted. "Oh, hello, _Prince_ , haven't seen you since you threw me out of your castle because your father's trying to kill me for being me, but guess what I heard? Your father used a sorceress to force your existence, and when your mum died because of it, he went on a twenty-year-long revenge spree, killing everyone with an ounce of magic, _including_ me—"

Here, Merlin broke off, as Arthur was suddenly attempting a left hook to the sorcerer's jaw. Not without a bit of déjà vu, Merlin's eyes flashed, and the boat, which had turned slightly with the current of the water, bumped hard into the back of Arthur's legs. Off balance, the prince fell backwards, landing in the boat with a thud.

And honestly, that's all Merlin meant to happen. But, whether due to muscle or his princely ego, Arthur's upper half carried a heavy momentum that caused him to keep falling backwards. The boat capsized.

For a moment, there was no movement in the lake beyond the ripples caused by Arthur's tumble. Merlin stood just about on dry land, and Arthur had only been a couple steps deeper, barely halfway to his shins. Then, breaking the peace, the prince stood, coming up under the boat, which lifted and fell with a splash.

Merlin couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Merlin," Arthur scolded. The boy continued to laugh. "Merlin," Arthur said again, though this time his tone had changed.

"I—I'm sorry—I really didn't—" but laughter made it impossible to continue.

Arthur, meanwhile, sighed, and trudged up to the sand, boots squishing and chainmail squealing. As Merlin's laughter died down (sort of), the prince fell to his rear, and then laid back, spreading his arms out and staring at the full moon. And then he, too, laughed.

Though amused, Merlin was watching his friend closely. As the prince began to laugh, Merlin's petered off.

"You know," Arthur said, gasping, "I could have you thrown in jail for that." Merlin smiled.

"Who do you think you are?" he joked. "The king?"

"No," Arthur answered, his voice suddenly very serious. "But maybe I should be." Merlin stepped up onto the sand, and carefully sat down beside his friend.

"One day," the young sorcerer answered, "You will be. You'll be a great king." Arthur let out a long, slow breath. Then he asked again,

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"To be honest, it's not mine to tell. And… and I don't know for sure if it's true. I didn't want to lie to you. Not about your father."

"Why would you care at all about my father? He'd kill you if he had the chance."

"He's your father," Merlin replied. "It ultimately doesn't matter what I care about him."

"So," Arthur supposed, "then you agree he's my responsibility."

"I don't know," Merlin admitted.

For a long while, the two didn't move, and they didn't speak anymore. Arthur lay on the sand, soaking in the earth around him, staring at the moon and the stars as his chest rose and fell. Merlin sat beside him, legs crossed.

The boy was thinking before he spoke again.

It was true, he didn't care too much for the king of Camelot. Merlin rather thought him a coward, and, for the past year at least, had been patiently waiting for Arthur to inherit the throne. But, he realized, he wasn't sure he wanted Uther killed, and he certainly didn't want Arthur to have any part of it. When Morgause had first told him of her hope for Arthur to know what she called the truth, a desperate play to motivate the prince against his father's ways, Merlin was unable to explain why, but a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach told him it was wrong. Not just wrong but… a lie. He didn't know if Morgause's information was true, but even if it was, were Arthur to kill his father over it, the prince would be lying to himself. Betraying himself. Pretending that the coup was just, when a small voice in the back of Arthur's mind would tell him for the rest of his life that it wasn't.

And Merlin, though he'd only known the prince for a week and hadn't seen him since, had come to know that such a thing, such a small voice, would kill Arthur. Because Arthur, unlike his father, was a just and honorable man. Not a bit a coward, and not at all a liar.

"You know," Merlin finally said, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I'm not very old. But I think I've lived a lot." Arthur looked at him.

"What does that even mean?" the prince scoffed. Merlin smiled, but responded,

"Shut up, let me talk—"

"Shut up, _your Highness_ ," Arthur corrected, but smiled and Merlin knew he was just being a prat.

"Anyways, if there's one thing I've learned again and again, it's that the only person anyone needs to be totally and completely responsible for is themselves." Merlin paused, but when Arthur said nothing, he continued. "I mean, it's perfectly alright to worry about other people, to want to help them and protect them, but, at the end of the day, people are responsible for themselves."

"What are you saying?" Arthur asked, and Merlin struggled to clarify.

"Well, with your father. He's made his choices. He's responsible for the man he's become. There's nothing you can do about that."

"But if he's a hypocrite, an unjust deceiver whose choices threaten others…" Arthur trailed off, and though Merlin wasn't sure it was a question, he proceeded as if it was.

"Well, then, the choice you make, however you choose to deal with that, you have to be responsible for who that makes you."

"And just how do I make a choice like that?"

"Well," Merlin said with a small smile, "I suppose that takes something like courage."

Again, Arthur said nothing, but Merlin had no more to say. The two sat there for another while longer, and then, stretching, Merlin stood up. He offered Arthur a hand, but the prince, before taking it, finally had another question.

"If-if I kill my father," he started, his voice stuttering a bit, "who does that make me?"

"It makes you the same as any man that's ever killed another," Merlin answered. "Now come on, you can't lay here all night," and Arthur reached up, taking his friend's hand. As he stood, he smiled and asked one final question,

"When did you get so wise?"

Merlin laughed. Then he answered, "I spent a year in the woods."

* * *

"Say hi to Gaius and Gwen for me, yeah?" Merlin requested as Arthur fiddled with the straps on the horse's saddle. Then he blushed. "And give Morgana my best. Tell her… well, I'm sure she's fine," Merlin amended.

"Do you still have her cloak?" Arthur asked. Merlin groaned, leaning his head on the saddle. "She's going to kill you," was all Arthur could say before he laughed softly.

"No! Don't tell her!" Merlin pleaded. "I know where it is! I'll just get it back." _It's probably still there_ , Merlin added silently, picturing the inn he'd been staying in up until a couple weeks ago. He was in such a rush to beat Morgause to the Isle of the Blessed, he'd forgotten the cloak in the dresser drawer. The tavern was a day and half's walk from the lake, but Merlin, with a renewed feeling of loneliness, realized it wasn't as though he had anywhere else he needed to go.

Arthur climbed atop the horse, and he leaned down slightly so that he and Merlin could clasp forearms in goodbye.

"Don't go pissing off anymore sorceresses, alright?" Arthur said, and Merlin smiled.

"I'll keep an eye on her," Merlin said. "I hope she'll just move on, but something tells me…"

"You can't save everyone, Merlin," Arthur said. "Sometimes, you just have to settle for worrying about them."

Merlin sighed. _Perhaps the clotpole is right_ , he thought forlornly.

"Merlin," Arthur started seriously, and Merlin looked up at the prince sitting regally atop his horse.

"Yeah, your _Highness_?" Merlin was rather proud of that one. Arthur just rolled his eyes. Then he continued,

"Just stay where I can find you, huh? Don't get lost or anything."

Merlin smiled. "Don't worry, I keep a map in my back pocket at all times. That's a joke," he added as Arthur shot him a look. "I'm to the east, if you need me to clean your boots or something. Though, I imagine you've got someone else for that now, haven't you?"

"Oh yes," Arthur said, smiling proudly. "And he's far better at it than you were. Gets the soles and everything."

"Yeah, well, he'll ruin them that way, keeping them that clean," Merlin scoffed.

Arthur laughed. "I'll just have a new pair made then!"

"Would you get out of here?" Merlin exclaimed sarcastically. "Your Highness," he muttered with a mocking look from the Prince.

Without another word, just a soft cuff over the head, Arthur rode off, and Merlin turned, beginning his trek east.

* * *

 _hi all, sorry for the disappearing act. hope this makes up for it, and i hope everyone is having a wonderful winter._

 _as always, thanks for the favs, follows, and reviews. i love any feedback you may have for me._


	9. Chapter Seven

Morgause was eager to see what her work had wrought. She'd been doing her best to distract herself, giving the Prince some time to return home, but there was only so much petal grinding and frog de-legging one could do before the tediousness became too much to bear.

As dawn approached, she reasoned that Arthur must be returning to Camelot soon, and so she made her final preparations. Years ago, when she was still in the midst of planning her great stand, she'd met a sorceress that had called the Isle of the Blessed home. Realizing their desires aligned, the two sorceresses had shared knowledge, and the woman Nimueh had explained that under the Isle lay a cave, separate from that which the prince and the traitor had entered. In the cave, which dead-ended at a surreal depth beneath the Isle's ruins, was a stone basin capable of very old magic, and with the proper ingredients and words, a sorceress or sorcerer could spy in on any present moment she or he desired.

Standing beside the basin, whose liquid contents were clear as water from a brook but bubbled as though boiling, Morgause pulled a small cloth from her pocket. Then, changing her mind, she replaced it, instead reaching for a small jar that sat on a stout shelf along the cave wall. Carefully, she unstopped the jar, tipped it, and allowed a small, black hair to fall into her palm.  
She dropped this strand of hair into the clear basin. It sizzled as the liquid ceased its bubbling and an image rippled out from the middle. Morgause watched, expressionless, as she saw Merlin, alone, stumbling over roots in the woods. The boy looked exhausted and not a little annoyed, and she pushed away the small knot of guilt in the pit of her stomach. _It's his fault that he's alone after all_ , Morgause reminded herself. He'd been too patient, when he should have acted. Even Arthur had been able to see that something had to be done, that choices had to be made. _He's a coward_ , Morgause thought bitterly. Before she allowed herself to think about the boy anymore, she waved away the image.

Now, she again pulled the folded cloth from the pockets of her trousers and undid it gently. With a delicate finger, she lifted a short, blond hair and dropped it in. Like before, the hair fizzled and an image appeared. Arthur, in the stables of Camelot, slid from his horse, passing the reins to the stable-boy.

"Feed him well," the prince said, patting the horse's nose. "He must be exhausted."

"Yes, Sire," the stable boy said.

Morgause watched, breath baited, wondering what the prince of Camelot had in mind. He seemed remarkably calm, she thought admiringly. She particularly liked the way his hand rested lazily on his sword's hilt. He moved through the castle's halls with ease, a level of comfort with his surroundings that Morgause thought she'd never had. Only once did a Knight stop the prince.

"Evening, Sire," the Knight said, and Arthur stopped, smiling as though greeting an old friend.

"Morning, Leon. All quiet tonight?"

"Yes, Sire, very quiet," the Knight replied. "It would seem all went well for you."

"As well as could be expected," Arthur said, his smile fading.

"I do not want to pry, Sire. It's just…" The Knight's voice drifted uncertain.

"What is it, Sir Leon?" Arthur asked.

"Well, I just want you to know, and I think I speak for many of the Knights under your command, we'll follow you to the end," Leon said, his voice rushing under the sudden pressure he felt.

The prince was silent for a moment, then, chuckling, he slapped the Knight's shoulder.

"You speak as though the end is near," Arthur said. "But thank you, your loyalty and friendship… they're imperative to the kingdom's future."

"Yes, Sire," the Knight said, smiling, and with a parting wave, Arthur continued on down the hall.

Watching him, Morgause felt unsure, but she denied this, repeatedly telling herself the prince was merely thinking of the best way to get rid of the king without getting caught.

But if Morgause could have seen into the boy's head, she would be unable to deny her uneasiness. For Arthur was thinking of Merlin, a boy, smiling, who had used actions to show what Leon had just spoken. He'd run himself through before admitting this to anyone, but it was Merlin's smile and laugh that Arthur had missed the most over the past year and half. He'd never been able to forget the serving boy—then just a juvenile delinquent—as he kept making jokes and prodding at Arthur when they first met, even as Arthur was tossing him into Camelot's dungeons. It was utterly perplexing to the prince at the time. No one had ever treated him so informally, so equally, so _normally_ , in his whole life. His father spoke down to him and the Knights and the servants spoke up, and with other king's sons it was a constant competition for who was better; with the king's daughters it was all about what he had to offer.

And then there was Merlin, whose only expectations for Arthur was for the prince to be the king he dreamed of being. Who didn't even expect him to get there as soon as possible. The young sorcerer had so much to lose while Arthur took his time growing up, and still the serving boy never pushed him any harder than someday.

 _You will be a great king…someday…it just takes something like courage_.

Having reached his chamber's doors, Arthur paused, reaching for the handle.

"Arthur," a voice echoed from around the corner, and the prince turned. Uther stood, just inches from the wall. Morgause smiled wide. _Soon_.

"Father," the boy said, his voice devoid of any notable emotion. Uther approached him, smiling a bit uneasily. The expression seemed out of place on the King.

"I see you've returned safely."

Arthur didn't respond, just stared at his father. Morgause, far away, sighed impatiently. _Come now,_ she thought, _you hardly need to be calm anymore._

Uther cleared his throat. "Of course," he said, "You'll need to be punished accordingly—"

Morgause's chest tightened as she saw Arthur's eyes flare, ever so briefly, with anger. The same rage she'd seen in them earlier that night.

" _Punished_? For what, _your Majesty_? What have I done inappropriately now?"

"I clearly ordered you not to go see that woman."

"I had a promise to keep, Father. That means something, believe it or not." _Oh, shut up!_ Morgause's mind was livid.

"How dare you—" Uther began, but Arthur ignored him, his chamber door squealing loudly as it opened.

"How dare I?" the prince asked softly, not looking at his father. The king didn't respond, seemingly lost for words at the weight his son's voice seemed to carry. _Act! Do something!_

Arthur just looked at his father. She wasn't sure what Uther saw in those eyes, but Morgause could only perceive sadness from the prince's gaze.

"How do you live with yourself?"

Arthur left that question in the air as he disappeared into his chambers, the door closing behind him with a whine.

Momentarily, Uther Pendragon did not move, his expression unreadable. For just a split second, too fast for anyone who wasn't looking for it to see, guilt flashed across his features. And then he turned with a flourish, as though he'd never done anything wrong in his life, and was gone from the basin's view.

 _Coward_ , Morgause could only think, though whether she meant the prince or his father, who could truly say.

* * *

Merlin stumbled down the inn steps groggily, scratching his bedhead and yawning.

"'Morning," the owner of the inn, a stout and frizzy-haired woman named Barbara Allen who had called Merlin handsome on more than one occasion, called out from behind the bar.

"Morning? More like evening," Lancelot said, a smile in his voice as he dropped a sack of flour on the counter. Something clattered to the floor and the curly brunet winced.

"Oi, pretty boy," Barbara Allen scolded, though she wasn't angry, "Watch where your muscles drop things."

"I'll have a talk with them," Lancelot replied, and Merlin smiled. The sorcerer made his way down the last few steps and took a seat beside where Lancelot stood. "I'll admit," Lancelot said to Merlin, "I didn't expect you back so soon." Merlin had been gone from the inn one week—one day to the Lake to beat Morgause, three nights there, and one day back, having arrived at the tavern around this evening's early afternoon.

"Where exactly did you think I would go?" Merlin asked.

"You boys want a drink?" Barbara Allen interrupted. "On yourselves, 'course."

"I'll take a mug of ale!" came the voice of Gwaine from just atop the staircase, a series of thuds following the request. Without missing a beat, the ruffian was up on his feet. "It's alright, I'm good, I'm fine," he coughed, his voice now beside the others' at the bottom of the stairs.

"Yeah you are," Barbara Allen confirmed. She leaned over the counter slightly. "What about you, in the corner? You want one?" She was addressing a large, muscular man that regularly sat in the far corner of the tavern. It was an offer of formality; the man hardly spoke, and never drank, but after hearing his story from Lancelot – the only one, in fact, that the man had been willing to talk to since he first appeared a few weeks ago – Barbara Allen had neither the heart or desire to turn the man away. Besides, she was weak for a good, unapologetic man with a strong pair of arms. And this man _never_ wore sleeves.

Muscle-man shook his head, and Barbara Allen decided he deserved a nice bit of stew.

Gwaine, meanwhile, smiled and winked, leaning on the bar-top as Barbara Allen stood up and headed for the kitchen.

"So how about that ale—"

"So early," Merlin muttered.

"It's almost dinner time," Lancelot pointed out.

"It's breakfast time when you've slept all day," Merlin countered.

"And what goes better with breakfast than ale?" Gwaine hollered, slamming a hand on the table. The ruffian laughed.

With a sigh, Lancelot resumed the previous conversation. "So is all well in the kingdom?" he asked Merlin pointedly.

"I hope so," Merlin answered. "I think so. At least for now… But… well… I suppose ' _you-know-who'_ isn't too pleased."

"If you two are going to talk about me in secret, at least do it in, you know, secret," Gwaine cut-in, with a swing of his mug.

"For the last time, you aren't ' _the-one-who-must-not-be-named_ ,'" Lancelot said.

"Yeah, your secret name is 'that drunkard we both know,'" Merlin added. Gwaine pondered that a moment, then shrugged.

"Fair enough, though I give your creativity only one point," he said with a smile and another gulp of ale. As he put his mug down and called for another (Barbara Allen yelling, "And how do you plan on paying for it?" from the back), Lancelot asked,

"So, Merlin, what did you do?"

"Why does everyone assume I did something?" Merlin responded, his voice a bit indignant.

"Apologies, what happened?"

Merlin looked sheepish. "I did something."

"Alright, Merlin! About time, too! Was it with that blond I've heard you two whisper about?" Gwaine hollered, clapping Merlin on the shoulder.

"Just shut it and drink your ale, will you?" Lancelot snapped.

"Do you see a mug in my hands?"

"If I put one there will you shut up?"

Gwaine smiled triumphantly. "Gladly!"

Lancelot sighed. "Barbara Allen, Gwaine's ales are on me."

Barbara Allen was chopping a cabbage when she heard Lancelot holler. "They're all so pretty," she said to herself, "but as useless as a cat on a boat and dumb as deer on a dinner table."

* * *

Her eyes burned, her fingers ached, her hair was disheveled and hanging in greasy strands. Her back had stiffened from her lack of movement. She grasped the edge of the basin as though the earth threatened to throw her from its surface. Nimueh had warned her, the power of this sight, the sight to watch other people's lives unfold, was consuming, obsessive. But Morgause felt if she looked away, she might finally feel something.

In the water the image of Merlin danced, smiling with a man she recognized (though _what was_ his name?), mocking her. The same thoughts had been rolling through her mind for a long time now, she didn't know exactly how long, but they had taken place of everything else—her sleep, her hunger, her ambition, her ability to breathe.

Had she really been _tricked_? Had she been _betrayed_ , by a _coward_ nonetheless? She had thought she knew this boy, he was a _fool_ ; someone, though forced from every home he'd made, he was still _kind_. A memory flashed in her mind—

 _"Don't move." Merlin saying, voice muffled by his shirt, ripping it with his teeth._

 _"What are you—"_

 _"Shh!" he is hissing, leaning in a bit. Knights darting around the trees and bushes of this forest just outside Camelot._

 _Morgause lifting her hand, starting a whisper. But without words, he is shaking his head, pushing her hand down._

 _Wind picking up, branches cracking and rocks falling in a direction away from them._

 _"That way!" a Knight is calling. "The witch went that way!" And they're leaving. Merlin ripping his shirt again, tying the torn strand around the wound in her calf. He's careful not irritate the broken arrow shaft still poking from her skin._

 _"What are you doing?" Morgause scolding, taken aback by this stranger. "Take it out!" She is reaching for it, but without words, he is again pushing her hand away._

 _"Leave it in now, it's too dirty here."_

 _"You're not saying you're a physician, are you?" Morgause amusing the stranger, her level of sorcery making cleanliness moot._

 _Merlin looking at her, his lips are sadly smiling. "In another lifetime, I would be."_

—Morgause screamed, the water in the basin bubbling higher in chorus with her voice, and she released its rim, falling to the ground. The cave fell eerily silent. Then, she began to laugh.

What was she so bothered about? She had been betrayed before, by people she liked better than Merlin. She had underestimated an enemy before, by those that posed more of a threat than Merlin. Was this any different? Was this any worse? What did it—

 _"I'm going to kill the king of Camelot," Morgause confessing. Merlin beginning to cough, choking gracelessly on the water he is drinking._

 _"You're going to_ what _?"_

 _"I want to be free, Merlin."_

 _"So do I, but what your suggesting… you're talking about_ killing _someone."_

 _"He's just one man."_

 _"He's the king. He's one man, and the Knights, and the court, and—" Merlin cutting his voice short, his eyes growing wide._

 _"And what?" Morgause prodding, voice demanding. Merlin shifting uncomfortably._

 _"Nothing," he is finally replying. "It's just his son, the prince—"_

 _"Well, I'll just kill him, too," Morgause declaring._

 _"What? No! You can't—he's—he's different from his father."_

 _"Do you know him?" she is questioning, her voice tight and looking at Merlin, who is shifting again under her gaze._

 _"Uh, well, no," the boy admitting, though Morgause can't tell if he's lying. "I know_ of _him," Merlin finishing hurriedly. "He's different. Trust me."_

—As suddenly as she had started laughing, Morgause stopped. The eerie cave surrounded her again.

Quietly, using the basin as leverage, Morgause stood up. She glanced at her reflection in the water, and, seeing nothing in her eyes, she looked away.

She forced herself to look back. After all, what was wrong with nothing? And softly, she smiled.

 _What to do now_ , she mused, tracing a finger lazily along the basin's surface.


End file.
